The worst part of this shocking revelation is that now I need to buy a new pair of blue jeans.
I need new jeans because my current jeans have become incredibly tight. Like, cut off the circulation in my butt, hips and thighs tight. (That's what precipitated my getting on the scale.) In fact, they were so tight that I began to worry that if I continued to wear them I might somehow die from damage to my femoral artery. But still, I was determined to wear them in public anyway because this is the part of my reality I call denial.
So I launched into the same routine I've been performing since college. I slide them up one pants leg at a time (left foot first, of course) and suck in really hard until I'm sure all the oxygen has been successfully removed from my abdomen. Step two: I perform ballet moves and lunges to stretch them out enough for the next phase. Step three: Buttoning and zipping.
But two pliés into my performance, I blew out the crotch in my favorite pair of Joe's. The pair I was insisting still fit me. Which clearly…
On the bright side, ripping a hole in my jeans the size of a Shih Tzu made them super easy to button and zip. I walked into the bathroom and stood in front of the full-length mirror. The hole wasn't noticeable from the front, so I wondered if maybe I could get away with wearing them. I turned to the side and zeroed in on my HOLY CRAP WHO CRAMMED THOSE TWO HAMS IN MY PANTS?! No wonder my jeans were tight. A family of swine had moved in where my cute little petite booty used to be. This was an outrage. An absolute, 100 percent travesty of injustice. Oh, the humanity.
Double downer was this: There was no way I could wear these jeans anymore. In public. They were going to officially become my clean the house jeans. Some people might wonder why I didn't just chuck them in the garbage. Why keep them? Well, maybe those people didn't hear what kind of jeans I said they were. Joe's Jeans. Like, $180 Joe's Jeans.
And that's when I realized something. Blue jeans are not called blue jeans because they're blue. They are called blue jeans because they send the wearer of the blue jeans into a deep and utter depression.
I hate trying on jeans even more than I hate trying on bathing suits. What can I say? I'm an anomaly.
Because we all have to shop for jeans at some point in our life, I've put together some super helpful tips.
*You must (and I mean MUST) do it before you've had lunch. Or had anything to eat or drink for that matter. In fact, the best time to go jeans shopping is right after you've recovered from some nasty lower GI virus, where you puked for three days straight, or immediately following a colonoscopy.
*When grabbing jeans off the rack, take the size you think you are and go up three sizes. Try on THOSE jeans. That way, you'll be pleasantly surprised when you can get them buttoned without much of a struggle. When the salesperson asks how you're doing, say this: "These jeans are way too big. Can you get me a smaller size?" Trust me, you'll feel great about yourself. Never mind the part where you're two sizes bigger than you were the last time you tried on jeans. Small victories, people.
*While in the dressing room, play music on your smart phone as loud as it will go. This will help muffle the sobbing accompanying the aforementioned trying on jeans thing.
*You know what? Just wear sweats. Sweats are totally cute and go with everything.
